Mother
by Croutonic Sarcasm
Summary: England stared at her son, the thin, wiry man holding out a blob of material. "Come on, Umi, just for me?" Palesetine asked. FemEngland, Palestine OC, cuteness


The female personification of England stared at her son, the thin, wiry man holding out a blob of material. "What is that?"

Palestine smiled. "Umi, I know that you know what it is."

Anne shook her head, settling back in her seat and picking up the tea cup. "Aye. But I won't wear it." Abdul sighed and put it on his lap, chocolate eyes full of dashed hopes. As much as she refused to show it, that expression on her son, just like any miserable expression on Alfred's, cut her up inside more than a knife.

"Yes, Umi..."

Ah, the hopes crushed and the misery in his eyes tore her up! She set the blue floral patterned cup down rather hard and scowled. "Get that look off your face. You're acting as though I decided you weren't my son."

Abdul chuckled and ran a hand through his hair, pushing back the ahoge at the crown of his head before letting go of the dark brown locks. "I'm sorry. I just wanted to see you in a hijaab just once. I thought you'd be more open to the idea... A lot of musmilahs are in Britain. I was... kinda hoping you'd be one," he admitted, a forced smile on his face.

"Oh, you brat. All of you push me around and expect me to just take it because I'm your mother, you little berks..." she ranted as she stood, snatching the cloth from Abdul's lap and stomping over to a mirror. "Get your arse over here and tell me how to pin it."

The desert nation's eyes shone and he leapt up in joy. "Yes, Umi!" He ran to meet her, glad that she wore clothes from her neck to her ankles. Her skirt was long and her shirt went to her wrists- she was quite a traditional woman.

"First, we have to let down your ponytails first..." he said as he carefully pulled the hairbands from her hair, the blond strands not sticking to the rubber bands from his gentle working at it. Her emerald eyes were pinned on the mirror, glasses matching her stubborn pout, the pout she said was never there.

Once the blond locks were around her shoulders and loose, he gathered them in one ponytail over her neck. "What happened to no ponytails, git?" she snapped.

He laughed. "We have to gather it out of the way for the hijaab." She snorted but didn't move, letting him take over. He put her hair in a bun instead, thinking that it would be easier, and handed her a cylinder of material.

"What's this?" she asked, turning the dark material over in her hands.

"It's the under material. You put it on like... like a wig cap," he said, then guided her to wearing it, ignoring her protestations that she'd never worn a wig cap in her life and that it was useless advice.

Once in place, she looked in the mirror and huffed. "It looks odd. You better hope I look good in this."

"You will. Every woman looks good in a hijaab." She sniffed before ceasing to speak as he began to pin the long scarf to the under material. In the end, it actually was a rather flattering style, the black standing out without being obnoxious. She turned her head too and fro to test the strength of the pinning, but Abdul's deft hands had made no mistakes.

"Well, I suppose it's alright," she allowed with a rather aristocratic nod.

Abdul smiled, wiping at his eyes slightly. The sight of his mother in a hijaab was one he'd never thought he'd see, and she was so beautiful. He sniffed just once, catching her sharp gaze and curiosity before she looked away. Abdul was an odd boy, after all.

"You're beautiful, Umi," he said softly, " just look. You're like a queen."

"Bloody right I'm like a queen, I'm no tart wandering the streets in those pipe jeans or those tiny little excuses for dresses," she snapped back sharply before preening, adjusting little things here and there. "Get me a pin. I don't like the plain one on the outside." She pointed towards her room. "There's a pin you gave me years ago, a little blue flower. Get it."

He was surprised at the request, but did as he was told, running and finding it, darting back as fast as he could to hand it over to her. She carefully undid that one pin and replaced it. "There. Now it's acceptable."

Abdul laughed. That was Umi. A short woman with a sharp temper. She was always sarcastic, usually cynical, rather large capacity of swear words in her head, a regal bearing, and one bad case of British superiority. But that was his mother, his loving Umi.


End file.
